The Pinkerton Files Five-Book Bundle (5 page)

Before stepping off, I looked at the train. Hunt's men had separated lead cars from the cargo boxes. It wouldn't take them long to reach Lincoln.

Through the open end of the last car, sawed in half to break it loose, I locked eyes with Saul. Like Hunt to Webster, he said something to me but I was too far to hear.

I jumped from the track. That was my last act in service to this contract.

*   *   *

Robert Pinkerton

February, 1861

Ginny Higgs knocked on my door.

“Telegraph for you.”

I had not expected to hear from Stark. I thought news of an attack against PWB would reach our offices. At that point, I would learn that Stark played some role in minimizing the damage or taking Hunt into custody.

I pictured a reconciliation with Father. I would explain my data. New views on detective techniques would be entertained. We would find common ground.

I believed those things. Maybe I am as big an idiot as Father thinks.

Robert Pinkerton: - Urgent. Depot at Richmond ransacked. Hunt has acquired a train, moving north. Webster murdered by Hunt. Learned the truth. Lincoln to be killed en route to Philadelphia. Hunt equipped with Union machines. You must intercept.

- E. Stark

It was fantastical news. I had difficulty believing one rascal from Louisiana could pose a threat to the President of the United States. I also doubted Stark. He had been recommended under duress. Maybe the case had gone too far.

Ginny Higgs screamed from the floor above. The sound of heavy boots pounded through the ceiling. Men stomped to all corners of the office. Father barked in outrage.

“Explain yourself, Sergeant!” He said.

“Get back, Pinkerton. Your boy is coming to New York on order of the court.”

The world had gone mad. That a judge in New York authorized police to seize me in Chicago bordered on slapstick.

Footsteps echoed in the stairwell. Father entered my office and locked the door.

“Ginny has barred herself in your former quarters. They think it is you.” He said. “Our solicitor will accompany you to New York.”

I handed him the telegraph from Stark.

“Robert, this is not the time.”

He read it once then looked at me in disbelief. After a second reading, his chin dropped onto his chest.

In a sense, this was the moment I had always wanted. Webster had been killed but that wasn't my fault. Stark had picked up the case. He sent crucial information about a plot against the President. These events stemmed from my use of the new technology.

I had been right. It broke my father's heart.

A door splintered above. Ginny screamed again.

Father must have been tempted to hand me to police. The case would have been under his control again. The son he could no longer trust would be out of his sight.

He swept items from my desk into a bag then pushed me out of the office. We ran around a corner, past pallets of unused machines, to a loading dock in the storage garage.

“Kate Warne is in Philadelphia with Felton.” He said. “I will send word. She will be prepared when you arrive. Take the interceptor.”

“Papa.”

“Be quiet, boy.” He said. “Go!”

If I could change one decision I made during that period, I would have embraced my father on the dock. He was gone before I pulled the goggles over my eyes.

I slid the door wide enough to poke my head out for a look. The interceptor hung from the underside of a railway scaffold twenty feet above. I had to climb a fire escape, lower a causeway to the scaffold, cross it and lift myself into the vehicle.

That was the trouble with the interceptor. Everything was a hazard.

“Robert Pinkerton, halt!”

Officers on the street saw me. Guns and clubs drawn, they came running.

The fire escape was an easy scramble. A few of the officers followed. The rest stayed on the ground, which I thought was an advantage until they started shooting.

I pushed the causeway down against the scaffold. Pistol balls rang on the frame. Police reached the top of the fire escape so I couldn't wait for shooters to reload.

I sprinted, maybe three or four steps in total, until a shot struck me on the heel. The pain was immediate. I cried out, full voice. With every stride, my leg got weaker.

Officers were already crossing when I reached the end of the causeway. My face was wet with sweat and tears. I cursed God and jumped to the interceptor. Not strong enough to lift my legs around the saddle, I hung from the controls.

Policemen reached the scaffold. There was only one thing to do.

I engaged the thruster and was off in a shot. The strain on my arms was enormous. I rode the underside of the rail as Kate had done. The vehicle was designed to flip from top to bottom automatically. I let go with one hand and twisted the control. My other hand slipped off, too, and I fell away.

The saddle tilted back as the chassis split down its center. The frame separated into halves and folded around magnets on the rail. Controls spun in their casing and locked into place. Two sides of the chassis swung together above.

I wondered whether it would make any difference if I landed on a roof or on the street. The saddle caught me square in the chest. It was the last piece to rotate into position. The saddle lifted me, upside down, and dumped me into the control panel. One of my front teeth broke against the thruster.

I collapsed into the seat. Every part of me was in pain.

Getting out of Chicago was easy. Even a poor rider like me could use the interceptor's retractable arms to grab hold of a local train and tag along to the edge of town where the interstate network opened up.

Nervous as I was at the sight of four levels of track ahead, there was little to worry about at first. Though the rails were heavily travelled, trains only moved in one direction. The interceptor was fast enough to outrun any trouble.

The real problem was at Columbus. There would be no time to slow down and maneuver through that exchange at a comfortable speed. Only a complete stop was comfortable for me at major rail transfers.

I was there in two hours. No words of wisdom came to mind. I didn't have a plan. I barreled to the exchange and hoped a good idea would occur to me when I needed it.

With traffic picking up, I slipped under a row of homes on the side of a slow moving train. That was my first good idea. I took a pail of dishwater in the face from an open window. Wiping my goggles, I failed to notice that the track was dropping. I tried to winch an arm to the rail above. The whole mechanism broke away with a jolt when another train crossed my path overhead.

I was rattled, clenching my teeth so hard my neck hurt. Less than a mile ahead, the straight line of track was replaced by rotating platforms. Trains charged through, not slowing down at all. The platforms spun, some rising or falling to catch trains at the lip. This was happening on all four levels. My mind went blank.

No one will ever read this entry so I admit. I closed my eyes.

I don't know what I hit. It couldn't have been too big because the interceptor wasn't knocked from the rail, only off its line. Tipped over, I missed a minor turn and disengaged completely. I was flying.

The interceptor dropped two levels in a free fall. I felt the platform catch me but didn't see how it happened. When I opened my eyes again, Columbus was behind me.

I took back all the awful things I said about God in Chicago. He is great.

It was a straight shot to Philadelphia. Being alive made me so happy that I didn't even mind the pain. I waved at children on passing trains. When I arrived at the PWB head office, it felt like I had achieved something significant.

That feeling was short lived. Kate Warne had left me note.

Robert,

On order from your father, I have left Philadelphia with Mr. Felton. We will rendezvous with President Lincoln near Harrisburg. One of your brother's classmates is part of Lincoln's entourage. You are advised to stay at PWB headquarters. Felton assures that you will be safe from arrest. I will send word by telegraph. - Kate.

Kate Warne was dispatched to confront Hunt and the Golden Circle. Father preferred to trust my brother's old chum, the cad Harry Vinton, rather than me. I was abandoned in Philadelphia.

Well played, Papa.

*   *   *

Kate Warne

February, 1861

There was no pleasure in following Mr. Pinkerton's orders. I knew it would injure Robert to be left behind.

Mr. Pinkerton's telegraph was a welcome surprise at first. Felton and I were having no success planning a defense for PWB. While I reviewed maps and tried to identify Hunt's likely targets, he fretted.

Felton made it impossible to reach any decisions. PWB shares their building with a telegraph hub that routes messages across the eastern seaboard. We were able to communicate with PWB officials throughout the Union. This should have led to fast conclusions. For Felton, the extra input only added to his stress.

When I read the message from Chicago, I felt rescued. PWB was a non factor. Felton was relieved. A physical change came over him like a defendant who hears a not-guilty verdict at trial.

I knew what it would mean for Robert. There was nothing for me to do. I had been given an order not a choice.

Lincoln was in transit to Philadelphia. Mr. Pinkerton did not want to risk sending a warning via telegraph in case Hunt's collaborators were monitoring the system. He provided me with a note, addressed to the President, which I was to present in person. This seemed a wise precaution. Mr. Pinkerton had known Lincoln for many years.

I had a few hours at most. I needed to find the President somewhere on three hundred miles of track. I had to board his train and deliver Mr. Pinkerton's message. I was then to apprehend William Hunt carrying out his assassination attempt.

“I can get you on that train.” Felton said.

“That won't be necessary.”

“The hell it won't. I was a conductor, you recall. I was better at that job on my first day than I'll ever be at this one. We connected with trains en route all the time.”

He led me out of the boardroom.

“I'll take you up.” He said.

“Up?”

A hangar on the roof housed the PWB dirigible. A cabin with no floor hung from the underside of the balloon. I looked up to see Felton at the main console.

“I'll fly.” He said. “You look for the President's train.”

This seemed a redundant comment until Felton strapped me in. Bindings tight around my torso, I was suspended face down above the cabin's open bottom. When the aircraft took flight, there was nothing between me and the city below.

Two rows of cranks were within reach. Turning them maneuvered huge glass lenses beneath me. The cabin's open bottom was a viewport.

We were hundreds of feet in the air. I felt like I could see the whole world. The jumble of the city gave way to open countryside. In less than an hour, Felton positioned us over the rail network. He called down with instructions.

“Use the wider lenses to focus on a stretch of track then bring the small lenses into play to enhance specific sections. You can cover the most ground that way.”

The sense of vertigo induced by the lenses made me queasy.

“What am I looking for?”

“The President's train will be short, six cars at most. It will be the only one without any of that gypsy crap all over it.” Felton said.

He was right. Lincoln's train featured five streamlined cars with identical brushed steel exteriors. It was easy to spot amid the rest of the rail traffic.

“Keep it in view while I bring ‘er down.” Felton said. “If you can see it, so can I.”

As we descended, I pulled lenses back from the viewport. When the last of the lenses slid away, I hovered a dozen feet over the train.

I slipped my hands into gloves hooked next to the harness. A black magnet was stitched into each mitt.

“Godspeed, Miss Warne.” Felton said.

The lock released behind me and I dropped through the bottom of the cabin. Felton had positioned me over the train's first car but, by the time I landed, wind had pushed me back to the last.

I hit hard. Magnets in my gloves held. I grinded across the roof for five yards or so then came to a stop. Hand over hand, I advanced to a porthole then climbed inside the President's train.

Armed guards were on me right away. I allowed myself to be subdued. The beasts still kicked me in the sternum. They lifted me to my feet and took every liberty patting me down for weapons.

I was unarmed. They passed my credentials between them, not sure what to do.

“I am a detective with the Pinkerton Agency.” I said. “Bring me to Harry Vinton.”

Mention of Vinton's name defused the situation. It took an almost jovial turn. One of the guards stifled a laugh.